by BV Lawson
“That’d be me,” Mike laughed. “Did the limp give it away?”
“Old fishing accident?”
“Nah, diving. I was a Navy Seal in my younger days. Not the safest career, I guess. But wouldn’t trade my time spent being cold, wet, and sandy for nothing. You said you’ve been here before, but haven’t seen you around. You new?”
Drayco pocketed his change, then shook the man’s hand. “I’m Scott Drayco.”
“Oh, yeah, the Opera House guy. Detective, too, right?”
When Drayco nodded, Mike continued, “Guess you heard of our latest drama. Arnold Sterling. Sounds like a precision strike if you ask me. The guy musta cased the joint to know when Arnold would be alone. Then it’s in, tighten a ligature around the neck, and out in less time it takes most folks to shampoo their hair.”
“You believe it’s a he, then?”
“Strangling’s more of a man thing.”
“Did you have any contact with Arnold Sterling?”
“Not much.” Mike lowered his voice. “My wife would have my head on a platter if I hung around his type. Either that or drag me to confessional and make me recite a string of Hail Marys. Not that he was evil, mind you. Had a knack for stirring up trouble.”
“Must have been hard on Beth Sterling.”
“My wife knew her, you know, before she got married. Never could figure out why she picked Sterling. Beth had her share of suitors, as she was a beauty—the natural kind, too, not the fake tits and peroxide type. I hear Arnold was a charmer at times, but he’s been a ne’er-do-well since high school. His old man was like that. Guess the persimmon didn’t fall far from that tree.”
Drayco made sure to thank Mike for being the only one to carry Manhattan Specials in town, then headed back to load his treasure into his car. He’d barely gotten the door open when a hand snaked around his waist and spun him around.
Darcie’s raven hair was a touch shorter, and it was only the second time he’d seen her in jeans—albeit skintight ones that screamed designer brand. But otherwise she still looked the same as when she’d visited him in the local hospital while he recovered from a gunshot wound. She took his hand and led him behind the bait shop, away from the nearest car. Or eyewitness.
She wasn’t wearing her wedding ring.
“Fancy meeting you here,” Drayco said, looking at her impractical high-heeled sandals. “Going fishing, are we? Or do you fancy a few red worms for your salad tonight?”
She winked. “Definitely fishing.”
“How did you know I was here?”
“I’m following you. I saw your car and knew you were back in town.”
“Guess you’re lucky I brought the Starfire. My Camry’s in the shop.”
“I would have found you, regardless. But I’m hurt you didn’t let me know in advance.”
Darcie didn’t look particularly hurt, more like one of the siren-esque paintings by Waterhouse, the one of Cleopatra, as she moved in closer, lips parted. With both hands, she pulled his head into a kiss.
Her kissing talents made him briefly estimate how comfortable the Starfire’s car seats would be for activities other than driving. Scrubbing that image from his mind as quickly as possible, he pulled himself from her grasp. “What about Randolph, Darcie?”
She moved her hands to his chest, running them up and down his shirt. “We’re getting a divorce. After what he pulled trying to blame me for Oakley’s death, that was the last straw.”
“I don’t suppose the fact he’s been charged with embezzlement has anything to do with it?”
“I’d make a lousy jailbird wife. He’s going to have to get his conjugal visits from someone else. So I’m back on the market.” She smiled up at him. “I still think Darcie Drayco has a nice ring to it.”
“I’m not sure we should see each other, Darcie. Besides, this may be a shorter trip than last time.”
“Why are you here, then? The Opera House?”
“Partly. I’m checking into a case of mine with possible connections here. And there’s the recent attack on Lucy Harston’s daughter.”
Darcie wrinkled her nose. “That was bizarre, wasn’t it? I’ve always felt sorry for that kid though she gets around fine. It’s not like they have enemies, the Harstons. Unless one of Lucy’s catering recipients got poisoned by her muffins.” She ignored Drayco’s feigned scowl. “Think this is one of those hate crime things?”
That was one of the sub-theories underlying the D.C. murders, although robbery was the leading contender. Drayco was surprised Darcie thought of it. “I hope not. Makes as much sense as any other theory so far.”
“You’ll figure it out. But I do think you need a partner.”
“You volunteering?”
“It’s one way to keep you closer.” Darcie looked off into the distance, crossing her arms across her chest. “Do the Harstons need any money?”
Drayco’s jaw dropped. “You’re serious?”
“I had the foresight to sign a prenup with Randolph, so I won’t be hurting.” She hastened to add, “And it would be a tax write-off, wouldn’t it?”
He scratched the back of his head. “I guess it would.”
“Or maybe I’ll hire Lucy Harston to cater our wedding.” She grinned, then kissed him again. He couldn’t think of anything to say after that since his mouth seemed to be otherwise engaged.
7
Darcie’s jasmine perfume still lingered after he managed to wrestle out of her clutches. Wrestle wasn’t quite the right word. Slithered, perhaps? As in he couldn’t shake the feeling of being a snake for kissing another man’s wife. But she was getting a divorce, right? Somehow that felt like a wafer-thin moral distinction.
Drayco shoved those thoughts into another file in his mental lockbox as he drove back to the Lazy Crab. But first, a quick stop. Though he had his prized Manhattan Specials, he decided to pick up some French Roast coffee beans for Maida. It was the least he could do since he drank his weight in coffee.
He grabbed a cup as he sprawled onto a kitchen chair. “Tell me everything you can about the Sterlings, Maida.”
He watched with amazement as Maida skillfully maneuvered piles of plates around him into a little breakfast fortress, all the while peering over her reading glasses at the Eastern Shore Post on the table. “Hmm. Well, Beth was an orphan, no family. Maybe that’s why she took such an interest in children. And I’d say Beth is part martyr, part easy mark. Good to her friends. But she should have left that marriage long ago.”
“Abusive?”
“More emotional abuse than physical. And there was the gambling. Beth had to patch Arnold up more times than she could count after he took a beating from someone he couldn’t pay back.”
“Not millionaires, then.”
“Hardly. Arnold spent most of what Beth earned. She resorted to dumpster diving from time to time.”
“Yet according to Beth, she gave Lucy and Virginia pro bono medical care.”
“Out of compassion. Or a little guilt. I think she felt responsible for Virginia’s condition.”
Drayco had phoned a doctor friend back in D.C. to research cases of what the doc had called “congenital amputation” like Virginia’s. Barring the use of thalidomide, which ended in the ’70s long before Virginia’s birth, the doc speculated it was a genetic or environmental factor. Since most birth defects form during the first three months, and Lucy didn’t know her fetus had a birth defect, it was hardly negligence on Beth’s part. Beth should have known all this.
“Ah, guilt,” he said. “That necrotizing bacteria of conscience that loves to nibble away at happiness. Did Cole Harston feel guilty about Virginia?”
“In spades. He worked in construction that took him all over the mid-Atlantic and Southeast and wasn’t around for Virginia’s birth. Didn’t make a lot of money and had no insurance. It all added up to a lack of good prenatal care for Lucy.”
“Was there anything else to tie the Sterlings to the Harstons? Perhaps the gambling bug y
ou said afflicted Cole?”
Maida hesitated. “I always wondered. When Cole was working, the Harstons didn’t seem to have any money. They had a small house, an old car, and shopped at yard sales. Cole was a construction worker, insulation I think. One of my nephews is in construction, so I know what the salaries are. Maybe Cole didn’t make the kind of money to afford a house in Palm Springs. But it should be plenty to live well around here.”
“How did he die?”
“Complications of cirrhosis. He was waiting for a liver transplant when he died.”
“Alcohol isn’t cheap. Maybe that’s why they never had any money.”
Maida took off her reading glasses. “The last couple of years of Cole’s life weren’t pleasant, for sure. It’s sad to say, but he never had a drinking problem before Virginia was born. Not even after he came back from the war.”
“You mean the first Gulf War?”
“He was on one of the tank crews that went into Kuwait.”
The Gulf War was a possible connection between Cole and Marcus Laessig, the murdered brother of Drayco’s client. Yet none of the other three D.C. victims or Arnold Sterling were veterans. Nor did Marcus and Cole share an alcohol addiction as Marcus was a teetotaler.
Maida studied the half-eaten plate of food in front of him. “You still don’t eat enough, young man. You’re breath and britches.”
Not wanting to insult the fine culinary skills of fair Maida, he inhaled the rest of the food and was rewarded with her beaming smile. Stuffed as full as a Thanksgiving turkey, he needed a walk. “Mind if I check out the garden in back, Maida?”
“Go right ahead. Watch out for the morning slugs—follow the trails of slime. Major tried crushed oyster and clam shells around the outside of the garden to keep them away, to no avail. You know, if the Major were here, he’d want to discuss the slug species in Italy used to treat gastritis by swallowing it alive.”
“Thanks for waiting until I finished eating to tell me that.”
Drayco carried his cup of coffee out into the Lazy Crab’s garden in back, noting how many plant species he couldn’t identify. If they were poisonous, he’d be in more familiar territory. He did spy one batch of pokeweed, parts of which were deadly.
He bent near a flower bed and dug his finger into the ground. Not exclusively sand like you’d expect on a coastal peninsula, but more of a light, sandy soil that warmed up quickly in the spring and permitted the early planting of crops.
The more he learned of the Eastern Shore of Virginia, the more it became a study in contrasts. Or maybe combatants—descendants of fisherman and farmers who’d settled the shore hundreds of years ago, pitted against weekend invaders from D.C. with their second homes, often fancier than those of the natives.
Then there were fishing villages like Oyster and Saxis, one on the Atlantic side, one facing the Chesapeake. Both tucked away in their own micro-universe where water meets sky and not much else, while strip malls popped up on U.S. 13 like bleeding Pfiesteria sores on menhaden fish.
What did that make him, then? Reluctant owner of a hand-me-down Opera House that stood at the crossroads of both past and future. Big-city interloper who kept being drawn into the sordid affairs of one small town, by karmic design or joke, depending on your viewpoint. He could practically hear his former partner, Sarg, laughing, “And you thought life at the Bureau was some mixed-up shit, Scotty.”
Drayco watched the last tendrils of pink from the sunrise fade from view, then dumped the rest of his coffee at the base of the pokeweed. From one poison to another.
8
Drayco strode into the Victorian house with the familiar blue siding, white gingerbread trim, and Historical Society sign, and made his way back to the reading room. A man in a Hawaiian camp shirt sitting at a table waved in his direction. Drayco examined the table, peering underneath it.
“Looking for something?” Reece Wable asked.
“Leis. With that shirt, I figured they must be around here somewhere.”
Reece scowled. “I’m told I dress on the stuffy side. So I bought this, the loudest one in the store. Figured it would make my fashion critics long for my good ole swallowtail coat. Instead, everyone loves it.”
“Everyone, Reece? Sounds like you have someone specific in mind.”
“If you must know, Lucy Harston was the main culprit.”
“Since when did you start dressing to impress the widow Harston?”
Reece looked like he’d love to design Drayco a new shirt by launching his cup of coffee at him. “I decided to stop scaring the younger generation when they came to visit the Historical Society. Don’t want little Susie and Timmy thinking I’m the ghost of a dead president or some other moldy muckety-muck. Besides, now that you’re back in town, Lucy and the other women will prefer to critique your fashion style.”
When Drayco last saw Reece, he was still holding a torch for the late Nanette Keys. Should he cheer or worry over the transference of Reece’s attentions to Lucy? He replied, “I doubt women care what I wear. Though Lucy did mention you the other day, grateful for your sympathetic ear.”
Reece uttered a monosyllabic “Hmmm.” The trace of a grin lifted the corners of his lips. He looked like an awkward schoolboy accused of being “in like” with the pigtailed girl from math class. “I don’t know how she does it, Drayco. Working full-time running her business, home-schooling Virginia. And then this bizarre attack.”
“You definitely think Virginia was pushed?”
“I was at the park for a few hours. Your typical party atmosphere, mostly parents and their brood. They don’t even allow wine coolers. Plus, if you’ve handled Virginia’s wheelchair, you know it’s awkward. Way too awkward for her to propel herself forward that fast. It would take a deliberate shove.”
“The sheriff suspects it was a prank.”
“He’s wrong. Nice of you to come down from your lofty D.C. circles, despite the tenuous evidence.”
“There are similarities to a case I’m working back home.”
“All that matters is you’re here. I’m sure the criminals in town are quivering in their cowboy boots.”
The office phone rang, and Reece raced off to take care of it. When he returned, he was shaking his head. “And the trouble keeps coming. That was Lucy. A friend of theirs, Beth Sterling, was involved in a wreck last night. They’re not sure she’s going to make it.”
“Are you sure it was Beth Sterling?”
“Quite sure. Why?”
“I was at her house yesterday to discuss her husband’s murder.”
Reece squinted his non-glass eye. “Stew over that all you want, but I told Lucy I’d drive her and Virginia to see Beth at the hospital.”
“Which hospital and how far?”
“They took her to the closest, Eastern Shore Medical Center. The trauma unit is good for its size. Want to come along? That would make two extra bodyguards for Virginia.” He added, “You know, just in case.”
“I’m not sure I’d be welcome, but I’ll meet you at the hospital, Reece. And I’ll give the sheriff a call for details on the accident.”
“That’s the detective spirit. Oh, before I forget, since this accident thing drove it out of my mind—did your former concert-pianist self deign to make any recordings, perchance? I’d like to have copies for the Historical Society archives. Since you’re the new ‘It Guy’ at the Opera House, I’ve started a file on you.”
“Last time I saw one of your exhibits, it was notorious Cape Unity residents.”
“Thanks to you, I was able to add a murderer to it. Don’t worry, your file will be more upbeat—thought I’d title it, ‘Scott Drayco: From Virtuoso to Vice.’”
“Makes me sound like I should be wearing a prison jumpsuit.”
“You send along those CDs and let me handle the rest. What recordings did you make? The usual musical suspects?”
“If by that you mean top-forty classical, you’d like the one with Franz Liszt works.”
; “Oh yeah? Why?”
“It includes the Totentanz and Mephisto Waltzes. It’s titled Dances with the Devil.”
“Oh good lord, you were destined for this crime-fighting thing, weren’t you?”
“So you’d think.” All it had taken was one of Reece’s fatalistic turns of luck and a kid from the streets with a gun and too much time on his hands. One moment, one car, one mangled hand. So much of his law enforcement career had centered around children and violence—either as perpetrators or victims. The last thing he wanted for Virginia, or any other child for that matter, was to become another statistic lost in an impersonal crime database.
Drayco held out his hand toward the door. “After you, Kupuna kane.”
Reece turned to go, then stopped in mid-stride. “What does that mean.”
“It’s Hawaiian for ‘he who drives like a geezer.’”
Reece scrunched up his nose and looked a lot like the flounder hanging on the sheriff’s office wall. All kidding aside, Beth’s health status worried Drayco. How badly injured was she? Reece had said the hospital staff weren’t sure she was going to make it. Maybe he should offer to drive Reece in Drayco’s speedier Starfire, after all. Just in case.
9
Scientists say the sense of smell triggers the strongest memory response in humans. No matter how hard hospitals tried, the acrid odor of frail bodies mingling with the sickening sweetness of antiseptic jumped Drayco back two decades to another such place. In another difficult time. Maybe the eighteenth-century practice of dousing oneself in cologne to cover up such aromas wasn’t a bad idea—they could hand it out at the hospital entrance.
Lucy Harston’s eyes widened upon seeing Drayco. But she didn’t protest his presence as he half-expected. Probably due to the fact those wide eyes were mostly focused on Virginia’s somber face and not anywhere else.
He followed Reece and the Harstons as they made their way to Beth Sterling’s room, where the nurse urged them to make their visit brief. Beth had regained consciousness and was dimly aware of them through the fog of morphine. Her bandaged face above her hospital gown made her resemble a half-dressed mummy.